Heir to a Fallen Star

Chapter 54

"Where to next?" I ask, looking up at him, my heart beating a little faster now that the puzzle pieces are actually coming together.

Kaelen looks down at me, a tight, focused smirk playing on his lips. He reaches out, his large hand taking the heavy book from under my arm and sliding it effortlessly into his rucksack so I don't have to carry the extra weight.

"Next, we get your ingredients, Master Apothecary," Kaelen rumbles, his moss-green eyes scanning the waking streets. "If Abernathy's right about blocking the olfactory system and neural receptors, you’re going to need high-grade stimulant herbs. There’s a high-end import market near the upper terraces that opens at sunrise. We buy what you need, and then we head straight for the northern cliffs."

He loops his arm securely through mine, his stride long and full of purpose as he guides me forward.

"Silas and the Vanguard's Wake will be waiting in the cove by dusk. Let's make sure that by the time we step onto that deck, you have everything you need to brew a miracle."

"Careful, Red, you're going to trip over a loose cobblestone and then I'll have to carry you the rest of the way," Kaelen chuckles softly, his large hand resting firmly on my waist to nudge me around a stack of empty crates. "Though, I suppose I wouldn't mind the view."

I barely hear him, my face entirely scrunched up as I squint at the cramped, water-damaged handwriting in the open ledger. I’m muttering to myself, my fingers tracing the faded ink of the ship surgeon's failed recipes.

Mint? I let out a sharp, frustrated sigh, shaking my head in utter disbelief. What on earth was this man thinking? Mint is a mild carminative; it relaxes stomach muscles and cools the palate. It does absolutely nothing to shield the blood-brain barrier or block volatile neurotoxins! And belladonna? In raw form, it would just induce its own hallucinations and accelerate the heart rate, making the patient take deeper, faster breaths of the airborne pheromones. It’s a miracle his entire crew didn't just walk off the deck hand-in-hand.

"Alright, let's hear it," Kaelen rumbles, looking down at me with a look of pure, amused fascination. "You look like you're about to hunt down this dead surgeon and murder him all over again. What did he do wrong?"

"He tried to shock the system instead of shielding it," I say, stopping in my tracks as we reach the edge of the terrace market, looking up at Kaelen with an intense, academic fire. "Mint is useless. If the Siren-kin's toxin binds to the olfactory receptors to override reality, we don't need a pleasant scent or a basic stimulant. We need a temporary neural blocker. Something that paralyzes the specific scent receptors without poisoning the sailor."

A brilliant, dangerous idea sparks in my mind, and a slow, knowing smile replaces my scowl.

"We need dried wolfsbane root to slightly numb the nervous system, concentrated camphor to create a volatile vapor barrier in the nasal passages, and a heavy base of whale fat to render into a thick salve. If we smear it directly beneath the nostrils, the heavy fat will trap the airborne pheromones, while the camphor and wolfsbane will lock down the receptors before the gas can ever reach the brain."

Kaelen stares at me for a beat, a slow, deeply impressed grin breaking through his scruff. He shakes his head, his moss-green eyes shining with a mixture of awe and absolute adoration.

"I have no idea what half of those words mean, Master Apothecary," he murmurs, leaning down to press a quick, proud kiss to my forehead. "But you sound entirely lethal right now, and I love it. Look ahead—there's the herbalist's shop. Let's go get your wolfsbane and camphor."

“I also need lemon balm to mix with the camphor. And for a tonic holy basil, passion flower and the key ingredient... Ashwagandha, the ayurvedic root will reset your nervous system in case the balm doesn’t work in time.”

"Lemon balm, holy basil, passion flower, and... Ashwagandha," Kaelen repeats, his tongue tripping slightly over the foreign, ancient name of the root as he pushes open the heavy glass door of the high-end apothecary market.

Inside, the shop is a sensory paradise compared to the dust-tomb we just left. The air is sweet, sharp, and medicinal, thick with the scents of drying lavender, hanging eucalyptus, and rows of pristine glass jars filled with exotic powders from across the eastern seas.

"The Ayurvedic root," I explain, my fingers already twitching with the urge to start grinding and mixing as we approach the counter. "The balm is the shield, but if the fog gets too thick and a sailor accidentally breathes the pheromones in, their nervous system will go into a panicked, hyper-aroused state. The Ashwagandha acts as a powerful adaptogen—it regulates the cortisol spike and forces the central nervous system to reset, dragging the brain back to reality before the illusion can completely take hold."

The high-terrace merchant, a sharply dressed man in a silk waistcoat, looks up from his ledgers. He takes one look at the sheer precision in my eyes and the massive, broadsword-bearing warrior standing protectively behind me, and wisely decides not to ask what kind of dangerous experiment we are running.

Within minutes, the counter is covered in our haul: bundle packs of dried wolfsbane, jars of volatile camphor, sweet-smelling lemon balm to cut the harshness, and finally, a heavy, tightly sealed burlap pouch containing the precious, fibrous Ashwagandha roots.

Kaelen slaps a handful of silver onto the counter without a word, scooping up the heavy bundles and stuffing them securely into his rucksack alongside the shark-skin journal.

When we step back out onto the terrace, the sun is finally climbing high into the sky, burning away the morning mist over the harbour below. The time for planning is officially over.

Kaelen turns to me, his moss-green eyes fierce, focused, and absolutely ready. He reaches down, his large hand taking hold of mine, his grip firm and steady.

"You've got your shield, and you've got your cure, Red," he rumbles, a dangerous, confident smile cutting through his rugged features. "We have everything we need. Let's go find the Vanguard's Wake."

The walk north along the ragged cliffs takes us a few miles out of the city, the air growing sharper and colder until we descend into a hidden, shadow-drenched cove. And there she sits.

The Vanguard’s Wake.

A soft gasp escapes my lips, the breath catching tight in my throat as I look up at the sheer, towering magnitude of the ship. Up close, a proper sea-faring vessel is terrifying. Her hull is a massive wall of dark, double-reinforced oak, scarred by old tides and lined with heavy iron plating that gleams dully in the fading dusk light. Three massive masts pierce the sky like skeletal fingers, their rigging webbed against the darkening clouds. In the centre deck, a massive iron crane sits right over the moon-pool hatch—the gateway to the trenches below.

On the wooden pier alongside her, chaos reigns. A line of dishevelled, rough-looking men—scars tracing their arms, heavy tattoos sprawling across sun-baked skin—heave massive crates of salted rations, heavy iron chains, and barrels of fresh water across a creaking gangplank.

Standing right at the centre of the madness is Silas.

The old quartermaster is entirely in his element, and the polite man who accepted my hug yesterday is nowhere to be seen. He stands with his boots planted wide, his single good eye flashing like flint as he roars over the din.

"Move those ammunition crates to the aft, you lazy dogs! If I see a single drop of moisture on that black powder, I’ll personally use your hide to patch the sails!" he barks, his voice ringing out like a cracked bell. A skinny sailor stumbles under the weight of a heavy sack, and Silas shoves him forward without a shred of compassion. "Up! No slacking on this deck! We run on my time, or you don't get paid!"

There is no politeness here. No gentle words. It is a brutal machine driven entirely by strict, unyielding orders and the heavy threat of violence.

Kaelen feels the subtle shift in my posture and steps in close, his massive shoulder brushing against mine as he looks down at the harbour. The easy, teasing warmth in his moss-green eyes has completely vanished, replaced by the cold, lethal focus of a commander returning to his post.

"Welcome to the Vanguard, Red," Kaelen murmurs, his deep voice slicing through the shouting below. He reaches down, his large, warm hand gripping mine with absolute, grounding certainty. "This is where the real work begins. Hold your head up high. You’re the reason this ship is breathing."

I pull my hand from Kaelen’s with a final, lingering squeeze, letting him stride confidently across the creaking gangplank. The moment his heavy boots hit the deck, the atmosphere among the crew shifts; even the roughest of the men glance up, sensing the immediate, lethal authority of a true commander.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself, and approach Silas. My eyes are still darting wildly up the towering mainmast, tracing the thick hemp ropes and the massive iron winches that look strong enough to lift a mountain. The sheer scale of it makes my head spin.

Silas cuts off his shouting mid-sentence as I stop near him. He turns his single good eye toward me, pausing as he catches the completely bewildered, awestruck expression plastered across my face.

The hard, snarling scowl he was just throwing at a deckhand softens, if only a fraction. A rough, gravelly chuckle escapes his thick beard.

"A bit different than a dusty apothecary shop, isn't it, girl?" Silas rumbles, tossing a heavy inventory ledger onto a nearby barrel with a loud thud. He folds his scarred arms over his chest, looking out over the ship with a grim kind of pride. "She's a beast. A beautiful, terrifying beast. Double-hulled, built to take a beating from the rocks and whatever else thinks it can chew through oak."

He steps a little closer, his voice dropping below the roar of the working men so only I can hear him.

"Don't let the noise scare you. These men are dirt, scum, and deserters—but they know how to work a sail, and they know what Kaelen is capable of. Look at him."

Silas nods toward the main deck. Kaelen is already standing by the wheel house, his arms crossed, his moss-green eyes sweeping over the dishevelled crew like a hawk tracking prey. The men are moving twice as fast now, instinctively straightening their backs under his gaze.

"You brought us the coin, and you brought us the captain," Silas says softly, giving me a surprisingly grounded, reassuring look. "You've done your part, Iris. Now, let us do ours. Have you got your herbs and your magic potions ready for when we hit the dark?"

I tap the heavy rucksack Kaelen left with me, leaning in close so my voice doesn't carry to the crew.

"I have more than just potions, Silas. I have a strategy," I say, my voice steadying as the academic certainty takes over. "I spent the morning dismantling that dead ship surgeon's failed journal. His antidote didn't work because he tried to shock the system after the fact. I'm going to shield it."

Silas tilts his head, his single eye narrowing with a mix of curiosity and scepticism. "Shield it? Girl, the mist seeps into your mind before you even smell it."

"Exactly. Because it targets the olfactory receptors," I explain, my fingers tracing the air as I lay out the science. "I bought high-grade camphor and wolfsbane root. I'm going to render them into a thick salve of heavy whale fat. We smear it directly beneath the nostrils of every man on deck before we enter the Eye. The fat will trap the airborne pheromones, while the camphor and wolfsbane will temporarily numb and lock down the neural scent receptors. The illusion won't be able to bind to their brains."

Silas’s jaw slowly drops. He stares at me, completely frozen, his scarred face processing the raw, practical logic of the design.

"And if someone accidentally takes a deep breath?" I continue, a fierce spark in my eye. "I will have a tonic readymade of Ashwagandha—a powerful foreign adaptogen. It will aggressively regulate the sudden cortisol spike and reset the central nervous system, dragging a panicked brain back to reality before they can jump overboard."

For a long, stunning beat, the old quartermaster says absolutely nothing. The shouting of the dockworkers and the creaking of the ship seem to fade into the background. Silas looks at me, really looks at me, as if seeing a saviour instead of a client.

A slow, breathless exhale escapes his thick beard. The cynical, weary look that had haunted his eye for decades suddenly cracks, replaced by a sudden, blinding ray of genuine hope.

"By the gods..." Silas whispers, his rough hand coming up to rub his face. "A neural block. You’m... you’m a bloody genius, girl. For thirty years I’ve heard of men trying to fight the Sirens with steel and prayers, and they all ended up at the bottom of the sea. But you're treating them like a disease. A disease we can cure."